


Drowning Out The Night

by mokumera (apricari)



Category: One Piece
Genre: Alcohol, Alcoholism, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Emetophobia, Gen, Past Character Death, Unrequited flirting, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 12:08:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29592597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apricari/pseuds/mokumera
Summary: “You‘re a mess,” Mihawk says. No pity, just a statement of fact.“Yeah.”“How long do you plan on going on like this?”Shanks swallows back the taste of bile. “I’m stuck.” It’s the most honest he’s been with himself in months.Mihawk sits next to him. “Your captain wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”“I know.”They sit in silence, surrounded by the lapping of water and far away sounds of bar life. Mihawk seems comfortable in it. Shanks doesn’t have much of a choice, spinning as the world is. He crams his head between his knees and breathes.
Relationships: Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Buggy, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Dracule Mihawk, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks & Gol D. Roger, Akagami no Shanks | Red-Haired Shanks/Dracule Mihawk
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Drowning Out The Night

Shanks reclines on the deck of the _Oro Jackson_ , absorbing the midday sun. Distantly, he can hear Captain Roger laughing. He’s just come up with a scheme and Buggy is alarmed, trying to talk him out of it.

They’ve just come off a long fight with a hell of a storm and with Garp, the crazy marine who had been hellbent on sinking them despite the raging hurricane. Crocus is hard at work patching up Tom, who had been busy patching up Jackson before Garp could put any more holes in the hull. It had been a good fight; they let Shanks and Buggy on deck to help shelter the fuses from the rain, and none of their crew had gotten seriously hurt. His ears are still ringing from the bangs of the cannons.

Suddenly, he’s being dragged by his shirt sleeve across the deck. It’s Buggy, looking for an ally.

“Shanks, tell Captain it’s a bad idea.”

“I’ll do it,” Shanks says. Their captain laughs loud.

“That’s it, kid,” he says. A hand scruffs his head. “That’s what I like to hear.”

Shanks smiles and puts his hat on. He ignores Buggy’s pinches and goes back to sunning.

This should never end.

-

They find each other in the cheering crowd, somehow, when it’s over. They’re both drenched and Buggy’s face is screwed up, sobbing. They cling, like they had when Buggy nearly got eaten by a Sea King, like they had during the trip up the Knock-Up Stream and Buggy had been terrified, like they had when Shanks was stabbed during a scrap and Buggy thought he was going to bleed out before Crocus got to him. Buggy is facing the platform. Shanks knows he’s watching them take the corpse away.

Shanks can’t look back at the execution platform. He can’t watch what they do with Captain’s body. Buggy’s hands grip and pull at his shirt. Shanks doesn’t know how much time passes, only that he’s alone on the plaza by the time the rain stops.

-

He wanders Loguetown in a stupor. He doesn’t know what to do, or where to go, so he ends up in shady bar after bar, and drinks.

And drinks, whatever he can get his hands on. There’s ale and wine, whiskey and rum and gin, fine sake and the worst well grog. It can make him smile, so he’s at the bars when they open and stays until they close—unless he gets kicked out. The kind bartenders all cut him off too early. The lousy ones won’t serve him at all.

And drinks. Loguetown is a miserable place. He wonders if Roger had liked it here; he’d never really spoken about it, only passing mention in stories about his earliest bar tussles. Shanks knows he walks the same streets Roger did when he had been Shanks’ age. He tries to picture Roger young—without his scars, without his moustache—and giggles overlong at the image over a glass of rum.

Inevitably, he hears men talk about Roger and his treasure; where the bastard hid it and how they can get to it. They whisper about how terrifying the Pirate King was, how merciless and violent. _You don’t really know_ , Shanks thinks, hand curled around his glass. _You don’t know what he was like_. He drinks.

And drinks. He falls asleep at the foot of beds, in the arms of strangers, in back alleys and inns alone. Dizzy, he wanders the narrow streets, just another drunk pirate in the gutter—it’s fine, he thinks as he takes shelter under a bridge, vision tumbling. Soon he’ll be fine. He closes his eyes for a few seconds, but the sloshing gets to him. He kneel over the dirty riverbank and heaves.

Two nights later, he runs into a familiar face in a bar near the docks. He’s buzzed, but he’d recognize the eyes anywhere.

“Fancy running into you here.”

Mihawk doesn’t look surprised to see him. Shanks slides smoothly onto the stool next to him and orders liquor, one for Mihawk, two for him.

“Are you by yourself?” Mihawk asks bluntly.

“Uh-huh. Who else would I be with?”

“Buggy.”

Shanks laughs. “I haven’t seen Buggy in...well. What are you doing here?”

Mihawk doesn’t seem inclined to answer, but he sips his drink while he watches Shanks knock his back.

“In a hurry?”

“Just looking to have a good time.”

“Have you been in this town since Roger was executed?”

Shanks hums. “And what if I have?”

Mihawk’s lips press to a thin line. “Don’t let me stop you.” He’d digging in his pocket. Shanks panics.

“Stay for another,” he says, grabbing Mihawk’s arm. “C’mon, just one more? I’ll buy.”

Mihawk levels a look at him, but retakes his seat. Shanks orders him a tall ale and another spirit for himself. The bartender is a good one; he ignores how young Shanks clearly is, and keeps serving.

And keeps serving. Shanks babbling at Mihawk, something about how he and Buggy would get in trouble for sneaking sips of booze and be punished by Rayleigh. It feels good; he’s laughing at the memory. He orders another shot. Mihawk smirks at something he says, and suddenly Shanks can recall Roger’s laugh, guffawing at his apprentices as their heads were knocked together, and the shot is gone. He’s holding another instantly. His face is warm and the room is tilting, so he focuses on Mihawk’s hands, resting on the bar.

They’re nice hands. Broad and veined. Calloused. Cool, Shanks thinks they must be.

“Do you want to come with me?”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve got a room. Up the road—down the road? At the inn—Indigo. Come back with me.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What I mean is—“ Maybe Mihawk doesn’t get it. He scoots closer. “I’d like—your company.”

“Shanks,” says Mihawk.

The next thing he knows, his head is underwater. A hand on his back pulls him up, and he gasps for air. He’s on a low, rotting empty dock in the Loguetown’s port. Above him, the stars spin and smear.

The hand drops the straw hat onto his crown. Shanks collapses back onto the wood, coughing up cold seawater. His face feels steamed. There’s vomit on his shirt. Disgusted, he strips it off.

“You‘re a mess,” Mihawk says. No pity, just a statement of fact.

“Yeah.”

“How long do you plan on going on like this?”

Shanks swallows back the taste of bile. “I’m stuck.” It’s the most honest he’s been with himself in months.

Mihawk sits next to him. “Your captain wouldn’t have wanted this for you.”

“I know.”

They sit in silence, surrounded by the lapping of water and far away sounds of bar life. Mihawk seems comfortable in it. Shanks doesn’t have much of a choice, spinning as the world is. He crams his head between his knees and breathes.

“Thanks for not just drowning me.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Sorry for coming on to you. Dunno what I was thinking.”

“Is that what you were doing?”

Shanks laughs and shivers in the cool night. He’s aware, distantly, that he’s crying, and suddenly he feels a jab of shame at the tears—which only seems to make them flow. But Mihawk has never judged him for being soft before.

“I miss him,” he says.

“I know.”

“I loved him. Y’know?”

“I know.”

“I wanna go back to sea,” Shanks says. “I want a crew of my own. I wanna go back...to the New World.”

“Then do it.”

“You make it sound easy. To just pull myself outta this hole and pick up a crew. You’ve always sailed by yourself.”

“It won’t be easy. You’ve done plenty of things before that weren’t easy, Red Hair.”

Shanks figures that’s true.

-

He runs out of money. He’s so sick of Loguetown, sick of avoiding the plaza, sick of himself—he steals a dinghy and sets sail with no map and no destination in mind. He wanders in the water for days, drying out. He vomits until he can only dry heave, his head aches like’s under so much pressure, ready to burst. The salt from the ocean spray coats his skin which burns under the sun.

When he can sleep, he dreams horribly real dreams that Roger is there, comforting him and laughing at him in turn. He can feel strong hands in his hair and on his back. He cries when they leave him.

A storm blows up. Shanks lets it thrash the dinghy. Lightning flashes and the wind whips him but he clings to his hat; it’s all he has. The boat capsizes, and Shanks is thrown to the dark water.

-

It’s hot. Behind his eyelids blazes yellow. Shanks opens his eyes and is blinded by a bright blue sky. Clouds tower over him. His skin is baking. He can hear the sea, and birds, and the wind.

Something is poking him. A shadow covers him, blocking out the sun, and Shanks is grateful for the shade. Another poke.

Shanks groans.

“Good,” says a voice. “You’re not dead.”

Shanks rolls his head to see a man with long hair staring at him.

“Can you walk?”

“Who’re you?”

“Benn. You need water. Can you get up?”

His limbs feel stiff, but he manages to stand. He stumbles; Benn catches him.

Benn takes him back to a small house in an unfamiliar village. The water he gives Shanks is a balm, so cool it eases his aches. Benn makes a warm fried rice that sits right in his stomach. Shanks feels raw and new, like he’d shed a skin.

“You’re shipwrecked?” Benn guesses. He lights a cigarette.

“Sort of. It was a one-man ship.”

“I see. I thought you might be a pirate.”

“I am.”

Benn gives him a bemused look. “A one-man crew?”

“I don’t have a crew yet.” Shanks eats his rice. “I’m looking for one.”

“I see,” he says again. “What’s your name?”

“Shanks. I was an apprentice. Now I’m gonna be a captain.”

“Is that so? Well, good luck with that...by the way, this yours?”

It’s his hat. Tears prick his eyes. He thought he’d run out. He takes it, feels the familiar straw, and puts it on.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t actually think we know when Shanks and Mihawk met but lets pretend they were really young. Otherwise, I’m throwing canon out the window.
> 
> I’ve got an OP twitter account now, @/mokumeraa! Follow me for more soft Shanks facts


End file.
